


Charades

by Magical_Destiny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov - Freeform, Brucenat - Freeform, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Press and Tabloids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magical_Destiny/pseuds/Magical_Destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When tabloids attempt to spin a torrid love affair out of photos of Bruce and Natasha, the two of them decide to up the ante and beat the paparazzi at their own game. But Bruce quickly discovers that faking a relationship with Natasha was a colossal mistake. The more they play at romance, the more he wants it to be real. Fake dating AU. Written for the HulkWidowNet Fanwork Exchange on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charades

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiny_white_hats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiny_white_hats/gifts).



> (AKA brucebannur on Tumblr) 
> 
> Based on the prompt: "Fake dating! Literally anything to do with the fake relationship trope." 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! :)

Natasha enjoyed the quiet mornings at Avengers Tower. The many SHIELD headquarters she’d lived in and around over the years had always carried a sterile, militaristic flavor, even in their kitchens, break rooms, and domestic quarters, but Avengers Tower was the first place outside of Clint’s farmhouse that felt like an actual home. She’d resisted that feeling of ease and belonging for a long time, even considered relocating when it got too comfortable to sleep in the bed, too easy to wake up without a set of orders from on high. 

Clint, as usual, had been the one to set her straight. “You’ve got a good thing going here, Nat,” he’d said, months ago now. “Don’t fight it.” She could fight it and damn him all she wanted, but he was usually right. So she stayed at the Tower. Usually, she didn’t regret it.

Today, Natasha thought with a mental sigh, was shaping up to be one of the days she _did._

“Clint?” she asked in the tone that he complained gave him “the creeps.” “What is this?”

His fingers, calloused and scarred from years holding an arrow and still more years working a farm, rested on the corner of the newspaper he’d slid across the table to her. They were seated in the breakfast nook in one of the many kitchens in the Tower, and the early morning sun spilled through the window to leave a glowing trail across the headline: _Black Widow Weaves a Web for the Hulk!_

It wasn’t a newspaper, it was a _tabloid._ And the cover was a picture of her. 

And Bruce Banner. 

She swallowed back a groan at the thought of Bruce’s reaction, and fixed her eyes calmly on Clint’s annoying grin.

“Clint, I’m going to weave a web for _you_ if you don’t get that garbage away from me,” she said, and followed up with an indifferent sip of her orange juice. 

He pulled it back across the table, spinning it so he had a better view. “Just something that caught my eye on the newsstand this morning. When were you going to tell me that you and Banner were an item?” She knew he was joking, but she checked his body language just to be sure. Maybe it was paranoia, or an unbreakable habit. Or maybe she just didn’t want to face the thought of actually explaining the situation to him when she barely had a handle on it herself. She hadn’t even talked to Bruce; there was no way she was going to drag Clint in so he could stare at her in disbelief, or worse, go into family man mode. She was glad his perception skills tended more towards tracking targets and less towards tracking more delicate things.

Things like feelings growing where they shouldn’t. 

“When were you going to tell me that you read tabloids?” she countered coolly, and was very satisfied when his smug grin slipped a little. Clint made a retort of the way he licked his thumb and turned the page. 

“Nat, this article is gold. Real world-class journalism. Apparently you and Banner are having a heated love affair. You’re just using him, though.”

“And what am I using him for?” she asked, smoothing an air of boredom over her words like a quick coat of paint. 

“Information. Or his — and I quote — ‘marvelous mind.’ It’s all a little unclear, almost like the reporter doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about.” He shrugged, and Natasha hoped for a fraction of a moment that he was finished, but his smile abruptly turned wicked. “Here’s my favorite theory: ’It has long been speculated that Dr. Banner’s enhancements are not limited to his ability to transform into the Incredible Hulk —’“

“How would you like another cognitive recalibration, Clint?” she interrupted sharply, almost forgetting to feign amusement. He held up his hands in surrender, and she elected not to notice the way his shoulders were shaking with laughter. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But this is hilarious. I almost showed Stark, but I thought it would be too cruel for you and Banner.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, and finally pulled the tabloid in front of herself for a better look. She recognized the photo instantly. It was from about a week back; she and Bruce had walked a couple of blocks to find a breakfast place he wanted to try. She had to give credit to the photographer, whoever he was, because the picture certainly looked incriminating. Bruce was holding the door for her _and_ both their paper coffee mugs as they exited the restaurant. What the picture didn’t show was that it had been her turn to pay and she had been busy shoving her wallet back into her bag just a moment before, necessitating Bruce’s door and cup holding. But the true damage wasn’t in the perceived chivalry, it was in the smiles. Bruce was smiling at her like an idiot in the picture. And, like an even bigger idiot, she’d been smiling right back. They did look like a couple of lovestruck losers in the photo, all starry eyes and glowing smiles. The strangest part of all was that she did _not_ remember smiling like that.

She bit back a sigh, folded the offending tabloid with savage precision, and stood up. 

“You okay?” Clint asked, and she spotted the first hint of concern bleeding through his amusement. 

“Fine,” she deflected smoothly. “But I’ve got damage control to do.”

Clint nodded, and she was grateful when he let the jokes go. “Have fun with the PR department.”

She didn’t correct him as she turned to walk away. The damage she’d been thinking of was a lot less public and a lot more personal.

* * *

She found Bruce in his lab. He was tucked into the far corner, staring at a monitor swirling with data she couldn’t make out from her distance. His back was to the door. 

A door that was tightly shut.

Bruce almost never closed his lab door, not in recent months, anyway. They’d gotten into the habit of eating dinner together in the lab so frequently that he left it open to allow her to glide in whenever she was ready. He’d started ordering enough food for her when he called for takeout, and he’d even started remembering her favorite orders for their preferred restaurants. She shouldn’t be surprised that a literal genius could retain a lot of information, but she was. Or maybe surprise wasn’t exactly the right term. Touched was probably more accurate. 

Or touched in the head. 

She shook off her thoughts and eyed the closed door with suspicion. She raised a hand to knock, and suddenly she saw it — the same tabloid she clutched unceremoniously in one fist was resting on the corner of his stainless steel table. 

Well that was just _great._

She’d been hoping for the chance to break the news carefully. Bruce was a man who saw unflattering portraits of both himself and the Big Guy painted in splashy headlines everyday. Maybe if she’d been able to play it off as funny, they could have laughed about it. But it was too late now; he’d probably already started stewing in guilt and self-deprecation — his emotional blend of choice. She sighed and knocked. 

Bruce turned, his face going into a rigid parody of a smile when he saw her. She saw the moment he debated whether he could throw away the tabloid without her noticing, saw him discard the idea, saw him finally give up and move to open the door. Damage control, she’d told Clint. It looked like she might have been more right than she knew. 

“Natasha,” he said, a touch too politely. “Good morning.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” she started, and held up the crumpled paper. “We’re famous now. Congratulations.”

His lips twitched, and her relief was sudden and intense. “Just what I always wanted,” he muttered, but his sigh ended with a smile. “Come in.”

She noted the tense set of his shoulders as he moved to settle on the opposite side of the table.

“So,” he began, his voice thin and worn. He gestured toward his copy of the tabloid, unbent and uncrumpled on the table. Her copy was half-crushed in her left fist. 

“How’d you find out?” she asked, and her irritation flashed swift and hot when she suspected herself of stalling. 

“Tony,” he answered. “He could barely stop laughing for long enough to hand it to me. You can imagine how much fun that conversation was.” He sighed and his veneer of good humor slid away. He wore the defeated look she hated so much, but she waited for him to voice his specific concerns so she could start defusing them. Sometimes it was difficult to predict exactly what depressing angle Bruce’s mind would catch on. “This is horrible. I can’t believe they thought…” He cut himself off and shook his head. “What are we going to do about this?”

It was Natasha’s mind that caught, snagging like fabric on a single, rusty nail.

_Horrible._

He thought it was horrible to be seen with her, to be publicly connected with her in an intimate fashion. Of all the reactions she’d already begun to prepare for, she hadn’t been expecting _that._

If someone had put a gun to her head and forced her to define what she felt in that moment, Natasha was sure she couldn’t have done it. It was a strange mixture of heat and cold, anger and disappointment and bitterness swirling inside her chest. She packed it all away carefully, to analyze and discard later. She didn’t allow any of it onto her face or into her voice when she spoke. “I guess I’m not the best thing for your reputation.” 

It was a simple truth, but simple truths were often the most venomous. She’d been concerned about how he would feel about sliding from the headlines of legitimate news stories into this particular gutter; she hadn’t thought he’d be so worried about being seen with _her._ She was used to this dance with her former colleagues at SHIELD. A lot of people seemed to have forgotten her number once the detailed files of her past exploits had become public record. The fact that she had done the releasing helped — any sense of control, no matter how insignificant, always helped — but the feeling of judgment, the sense of recoiling that she could almost feel around her still stung. 

Coming from Bruce, the feeling was a thousand times worse. She should have prepared for this scenario, should have been ready to back out of the lab with a shrug and a smirk, but after all this time, she hadn’t thought that _he_ would —

“What?” he interrupted suddenly. “ _My_ reputation?” He stared at her for a moment. His laugh was sudden and almost startled her. He tugged his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. “Natasha, I was concerned about you being publicly connected with _me._ When things go…” He trailed off and swallowed. “…badly for me, the first people who are dragged in and questioned are my known associates. If they think we’re —” he shrugged in place of offering a definition, “Then you could be in a lot of trouble. You’ve got enough problems without more congressional committees breathing down your neck. So, no, I’m not worried about my reputation. But I’m very worried about yours.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh,” Natasha said quietly, and she was glad that her poker face was flawless. If Bruce had been able to see exactly what she felt toward him in that moment, the conversation would have taken an abrupt turn. As it was, she tamped down on the surge of warmth in her chest and offered him a tiny smile as she finally decided what they were going to do.

“Bruce,” she began, “My reputation was shot to hell before I joined SHIELD, and I burned the rest of it to the ground myself. So it’s all uphill from here.” He actually cracked a smile. It was a pitiful smile, but she had a plan to change that. “We can’t stop these stories, per se, but we can get…” She leaned in, and he mirrored her reflexively. “… _creative._ ”

“Creative?” he echoed, looking lost in a battle between interest and fear. But she knew that Bruce Banner was a rebel underneath his acquired layers of caution and reserve. The man who had pioneered gamma ray research and then aimed it at himself had more guts than he liked to believe — and she was counting on that.

“Let’s beat them at their own game.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to win a mud-slinging battle with tabloids, Natasha…”

She shrugged and raised an eyebrow at him; he wasn’t getting her meaning yet. “If you can’t beat them, get a little old-fashioned revenge.”

He still looked confused, but his smile made a brief appearance. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes,” he commented, studying her face. She wondered if he knew he was leaning in more and more the longer she drew this out.

“Is it not? Good thing I changed it, then, because my version’s better.” He didn’t contradict her; to her delight, he actually looked _intrigued._

“What are you planning?” he prompted a little breathlessly.

“Bruce,” she started with a wicked grin. “Let’s put on a show.” His eyebrows were still contracted in confusion. She pushed his copy of the tabloid between the two of them and tapped it purposefully. “If we’re going to be onstage anyway, we might as well bring the house down.” 

Natasha hadn’t been planning her own missions for very long in the scheme of things, but her track record was excellent so far. She was five minutes into this particular operation and it was already half-accomplished when Bruce’s look of concern gave way to a conspiratorial smile.

* * *

Bruce loved the idea of Central Park a lot more than the reality. It was an oasis in the midst of a chaotic concrete jungle, a hint of fresh air that was mostly free of auto exhaust and the discordant symphony of car horns. There was music, the saxophones and keyboards and trumpets and violins that were played along the branching paths by street musicians. There were ponds, and boats, and kites, and children playing. But most of all there were lots of people, lots of cameras, and way too many chances of being recognized. He avoided the park because it was too risky, and by extension, too stressful to be a safe or enjoyable experience. 

Naturally, it was the setting for phase one of Natasha’s plan. 

Bruce was really not sure why he had agreed to this plan. Well, he knew _why_ , if he was honest with himself, but the truth was very little help now that he was stuck. He was so busy berating himself for his lack of self-control that he handed the carriage driver far too much money and forgot to ask for change. Luckily Natasha was staring in the opposite direction and didn’t notice. 

“Got him,” she muttered. “The photographer’s just around that corner. He’s onto us.” She smirked at him and stepped towards the carriage.

And waited pointedly. 

Bruce finally remembered that he should probably offer her a hand, for the sake of the cameras. Their wildly cliché, too-incredible-for-belief romance was about to officially begin. “After you, sweetheart,” he said, and took her hand to help her up. He settled in beside her, much closer than he ever would have done under normal circumstances. Natasha pressed still closer. 

“Arm around me,” she muttered through a brilliant smile, and he obeyed. “Okay, just stay relaxed for the next couple of minutes, and he’ll get some shots.”

They lapsed into a silence filled by the clopping of the horses hooves, the murmur of distant conversation, and the distant screech of traffic, and Bruce tried very hard not to enjoy himself. He really shouldn’t have agreed to this. Natasha had the talent of making anything sound like a good idea, especially when she was leaning close and smiling at him, which was really just another facet of the core problem: his ridiculous, pointless, utterly idiotic crush on Natasha Romanoff. 

It had been easy to ignore it in the beginning. They’d developed the lullaby, and, true, he’d felt very close to her during those days, but it was warm and friendly and not dangerous. There was no possibility of anything ever happening, so he could relax and just enjoy her company. That, he decided, was where he’d ultimately gone wrong. He had let his guard down, and ended up in the middle of complicated feelings before he’d realized they had even begun. He sighed.

“Oh, come on,” Natasha whispered, and her face was so close that he could almost feel the motion of her lips. “It’s not that bad.”

No, it wasn’t. He liked being in the carriage with the leaves whispering overhead and Natasha pressed against his side, and that was precisely the problem. 

This had been a colossally bad idea. 

Natasha must have caught another glimpse of the photographer, because she rested her head against his shoulder. “Just wait,” she whispered. “This is just the first date. We’re going to be so disgustingly over-the-top that not even the reading public will believe it. Our tabloid reporter friends will be accused of faking the whole thing, if we’re lucky.” He felt her smile against his shoulder.

He certainly hoped that the tabloids would drop the story. Maybe if they didn’t believe it, he could force himself not to believe it, either.

* * *

The next week was a flurry of “dates,” all carefully planned by Natasha. They went to the top of the Empire State building, and held hands on the way out. They found the most romantic restaurants and requested tables by the window. All the while, Natasha gave a running commentary on the whereabouts of the photographers who were tracking them and occasionally suggested poses. They’d staged hand kisses, hand holding, and disgusting displays of “making eyes.” He’d gotten her flowers, big, ridiculous bouquets of carnations, daisies, and roses, and presented them to her for still more photo ops. He thought she seemed to like the roses best, and couldn’t seem to shake off the irrelevant information. It wasn’t as though there was any point in remembering for future reference. 

Bruce was a little confused at how often her laugh seemed genuine during their outings, and the way her smile seemed natural except when the cameras were closing in, but she was a professional at this sort of misdirection. He decided to ignore it and focus instead on how pathetic is was that he was enjoying a series of staged dates. Bad luck and bad choices seemed to be his perpetual fate. _I’m doomed_ , became the running mantra in the back of his mind.

But it wasn’t until the gala that he realized and accepted that he was well and truly screwed. He groaned inwardly when Natasha shirked her coat into his hands as they arrived, revealing her gown for the first time. It was an achingly romantic choice, simple, elegant black with a soft neckline that plunged dangerously low and a back that consisted of nothing but tiny, sparkling straps that crisscrossed her smooth skin. The skirt flared in a way that was perfect for dancing, and she wore no jewelry apart from the glitter of diamond stud earrings. As she stood against the backdrop of the soft lights of the ballroom and the white-clothed tables decorated with pink and red roses, she looked exactly like a dream. Bruce abruptly realized that he was going to pay a high price for Natasha’s game. He was going to suffer when the dream was over. 

She snagged his arm, and led them to a table at one edge of the ballroom. Their names were printed on place cards that looked like paper heart valentines. 

“What exactly is this gala?” he asked as Natasha signaled a wandering waiter for some champagne. She never gave him much information before their “dates.” He’d thought about asking for details ahead of time, but she obviously got a kick out of surprising him and he discovered that he didn’t mind being surprised.

“One of the Valentine’s Day galas that Stark Industries sponsors for employees,” she replied. “You have a standing invite to all Stark-funded events, and I’m your plus one. He probably forgot to tell you,” she added, answering his look of confusion when he didn’t speak. “Or maybe he just saw the face you make when parties are mentioned.” She turned her smirk towards the leather-bound menu.

“I don’t hate parties,” he protested. 

“I think those exact words have actually come out of your mouth.”

She was right. “I don’t _always_ hate parties,” he edited. 

“Then let’s dance.” Natasha was standing before he could register his own whiplash from her change of subject. “It’ll make a great picture.” He didn’t feel much like dancing when his head was full of an ongoing count of mistakes he was going to suffer for later, but since the entire point of this charade was the pictures, he couldn’t exactly refuse. 

They moved onto the dance floor hand in hand. He settled his hand against her waist, drawing her in, but she pressed even closer. The music finally began, and she tucked her face against his neck and grazed her fingers through his hair. They were romance incarnate, wrapped around each other on a dance floor circled with roses and candlelight. What a photo op.

He was mildly alarmed at how natural it felt to hold her this way, at how _good_ it felt. He had learned the hard way that the price of happiness now was pain later, but as the music played on, it became increasingly difficult to focus on the fact. They danced mostly in silence after she whispered to him about the photographer’s position, and by the time the music faded, Bruce had decided that no matter how badly it stung later, this game was worth it.

* * *

Bruce woke the next morning to find a text from Natasha waiting on his phone. 

_V-Day. ;)_

After their staged photoshoot at the Valentine’s Day gala the day before, Natasha had warned him that they were going big for the holiday proper. The look in her eye had been a little frightening.

Naturally, he was much more excited then he should be. 

She’d specified casual dress, but he still put too much thought into what exactly he should wear. For the cameras, of course. If he had owned any red shirts, he would have chosen the brightest he could find in honor of the day — and to see Natasha’s look of exasperation. They were aiming for over-the-top, but she still rolled her eyes at him every now and then when he threw out a particularly bad line or strayed too far into cheesy romantic clichés. Of course, she usually smiled too.

He met her in the Tower lobby, and was instantly transfixed by her smile. It was absolutely wicked. “Ready to bring the house down?” she asked by way of greeting.

A variety of responses ran through his head, each far worse than the last. He rejected “I was born ready” and “As ready as I’ll ever be” and had almost decided to go with a simple “Let’s do this,” but Natasha’s eyes flicked to the lobby’s glass doors and her smile froze. “What?” he said instead.

“The photographer — he’s already waiting for us.” She pressed her lips together and he saw the new plan dawn in her eyes. “Jarvis?” she called. 

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff?” answered the ever-present AI.

“How would you feel about deactivating the lobby security cams for the next thirty seconds?” Bruce suddenly had a very bad feeling about Natasha’s plan. 

“I believe it can be arranged.”

“Deactivate in five seconds.” She grabbed his arm and propelled him into the very center of the lobby. They were in plain sight of anyone just beyond the doors, where he presumed the photographer must be lurking. 

She planted her feet firmly and faced him. “Okay,” she started, with the breathless energy of a fighter stepping into the ring. “It’s time to improvise. Kiss me.”

Bruce’s mouth refused to function for a long moment, with the single exception of falling open in shock. 

“I — _what?_ ”

Natasha gave him a look that was a swirl of frustration, amusement, and something he couldn’t identify. “Fine, I’ll kiss you,” she decided, and she was suddenly far too close. Her hands slid to either side of his face, and his ears rang as though his thoughts were bouncing incoherently between them. He got an up-close look at the tiny line that appeared between her eyebrows when she hesitated.

“If that’s alright with you,” she added in a whisper. Her voice, he noticed hazily, went as rough as velvet rubbed against the grain when it dropped into lower registers.

He needed to say no. He needed to back away from her and from this situation, return to his lab, lock the door, and put as much casual distance between the two of them as he could manage without jeopardizing the lullaby. He knew he should say no, even decided on saying it, but he lost his hold on the word somewhere between his brain and his mouth and it came out as a small but firm, "Okay.”

Natasha’s smile was even more beautiful when it was this close. She pressed her lips gently to his, and he felt her smile go slack. She was still and soft for a moment, and he wondered if a chaste liplock was all she needed for the camera. 

She hummed deep in her throat, tilted her head, and Bruce rapidly realized that she hadn’t even started. She quickly coaxed his lips apart and slid her arms around his neck; his hands found her waist half as an anchor, and half because he couldn’t help himself. It took a long moment for the sensory overload to steady enough for him to keep up with her, but he made the best effort he could when his brain was all but on fire. She didn’t pull away until Jarvis’s voice rang around them. 

“Ten seconds until the security cameras are back online.”

She stepped back suddenly, and left him with a cold, bereft feeling. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips pink and swollen, and it was all he could do to stop himself from pulling her into another kiss. He blinked and forced himself to remember the photographer outside and the fact that they were in a room that would show up on the building’s security feeds in just a few more seconds. They were out of time, in more ways than one.

“I hope he got the money shot,” Natasha said at last. Her breathing was a little heavy, he noticed, but he forced himself not to think about that. She turned to him again and smirked. “Well, the kiss was our grand finale. I wanted a better backdrop, but we improvised pretty well.”

“Now what?” he asked, and wondered what exactly he meant. 

“Now we wait and see if we’re front page material. I’ve seen a lot of skepticism about our love affair online, and a few people complaining about the story and saying it can’t be true.” She shrugged. “Maybe they’ll drop it.”

“If not?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He saw the moment she slipped out of mission mode when her stance loosened. “How about some breakfast? Eating was part of my plan, but since Mr. Ambitious over there,” — she jerked a thumb in the direction of the doors — “Ruined all that, let’s get something to eat.”

She led the way back to the kitchen, and Bruce tried very hard not to regret the fact that they’d missed their last date.

* * *

The Valentine’s Day sky was a pristine, cloudless blue as Bruce glanced through the kitchen windows. He wondered how many people on the streets below were hurrying to pick up candies and flowers…

He abruptly remembered the gift he’d been intending to give Natasha — the gift he’d forgotten on his bedside table.

Natasha glanced at him expectantly as she pulled a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. “Are you helping?”

“Yeah. I just — I’ll be right back.” 

It was a quick errand, and he returned before she’d finished whisking the eggs. “What was that about? And do you want cheese in these?”

“I almost forgot your Valentine’s Day gift. I figured you should still have it, even if we’re done with all the charades.” And he held out the single, red rose. He tried not to fidget when she stared and made no move to take it.

“That’s what you got for me?”

“What’s more romantic than a rose?”

Her lips were twitching, and she tapped the whisk against the bowl twice before laying it aside. “That’s one of the cheesiest things I’ve ever heard,” she observed as she finally accepted the rose. 

He shrugged. “Valentine’s Day is all about the cheese.” She ran her fingertips over the perfect petals of the rose, a rose he had taken a long time in selecting, trying to find the most flawless and beautiful flower possible. A thought came to him, and he almost resisted, but his mouth wasn’t much for obedience today. “So, yes,” he added flatly. “I would like cheese in the eggs.”

Natasha lost the battle against her smile almost instantly, and her laugh was the most musical sound he’d heard all day. She stared at the rose, her smile fading. “You don’t have to give me this,” she said quietly, spinning the rose between her fingers. 

“I want to,” he blurted before he could consider what the appropriate response would be. 

She look at him suddenly, and there was something soft in her eyes. The softness shifted rapidly into purpose, and she took a step in his direction. Two more steps. She stood right in front of him. She slid her free hand to his face, and for the second time that day, Natasha kissed him. 

It was a soft kiss, strange and almost sad, and Bruce didn’t understand it at all. “Where’s the camera?” Bruce asked when she pulled back. “How’d they find us all the way up here?” A neighboring building, maybe. He glanced toward the windows, but Natasha was shaking her head.

“There isn’t one,” she said with a dismissive shrug, but he noted that her eyes were locked on his face, reading him. 

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh,” he said at last, and he knew it was a stupid response, but he was too busy kissing Natasha again to dwell on it.

* * *

Natasha came down for breakfast the next day, and found Clint sitting at the table with a stern look. She sat down across from him and very pointedly didn’t ask about his mood. “Good morning,” she offered instead.

“Nat,” he said, and she instantly recognized his “dad” voice. “What is this?”

She found herself staring at a photo of herself on the cover of a tabloid yet again, this time locked into an obviously passionate kiss with Bruce in the lobby. 

So they had decided to run with the story. 

She searched for a rush of irritation, but all she found was more of the bizarre warmth that had filled her since the day before. She’d have some explaining to do very soon, because once Bruce came down, she wasn’t going to be able to put off kissing him until they were alone. But for now, maybe she could have a little fun. Clint owed her for helping to kickstart this entire thing, after all. 

“Clint,” she said flatly. “You can’t believe everything you read in those things.”


End file.
